


returning home

by phylocalist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Victor Nikiforov-centric, he's been hurt a lot but he's finally learning to heal, viktor's (very) complicated relationship with the ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 05:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16382507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phylocalist/pseuds/phylocalist
Summary: The end is never predictable. It either comes at you slow, sneaks up on you and snatches the ground under your feet in one swift move; or it goes off with a bang so sudden that when you realize what’s happening, the evidence of the catastrophe is all that’s left.The end of the living legend is a combination of both.-When Viktor Nikiforov, newly returned top competitive skater, injures himself during a routine so badly that he requires surgery, it feels like the world is crumbling down under him, threatening to swallow him up. But, with the help of his husband, Viktor learns that sometimes healing isn't just physical—sometimes it involves the heart too.





	returning home

**Author's Note:**

> after a good few months, we can finally post our pieces for the [kings on ice zine](http://kingsonicezine.tumblr.com)! i got the pleasure and honor of writing about viktor off-ice and this is the resulting fic. there are a lot of traits that i can see of myself within viktor, so he's a character that's very dear to my heart and i hope i made him justice.
> 
> if you want to see more of the beautiful pieces that people contributed to this zine, you can click on the name provided beforehand and follow the tumblr to see as the pieces get reblogged.
> 
> thank you to the mods for allowing me to write about this beautiful, broken but healing, boy and for letting me be part of this awesome project. <3
> 
> thank you so much, also, to [rimi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/adreamingsongbird) for betaing this fic. they are a wonderful writer and an even better friend (which sounds almost impossible, but they manage somehow) and they made this fic better than it could've been. 
> 
> **content warning** for non-graphic descriptions of a skating injury, discussion of said injury and its' recovery process and lowkey descriptions of grief.

The end is never predictable. It either comes at you slow, sneaks up on you and snatches the ground under your feet in one swift move; or it goes off with a bang so sudden that when you realize what’s happening, the evidence of the catastrophe is all that’s left.

The end of the living legend is a combination of both.

His knee has been acting up for weeks, yet he’s neglected to have the physician look at it; he _is_ the living legend, he can do at least this much. When the pain starts creeping up on him, all he needs are a couple of painkillers and a look at the bright fire that is his husband blazing a trail across the ice. There is no better remedy than Yuuri whispering sweet encouragement into his ear and praising him for how well he’s been doing getting back all of his quads.

The pain gains on him in waves: first it’s only a nuisance, then it becomes a distraction, then a constant thorn on his side and, finally, it becomes his demise.

When, at the end of his Free Skate during the Grand Prix Final, Viktor Nikiforov falls, the whole world falls with him.

When, under the weight of all his past medals, Viktor Nikiforov can’t get up, the whole world stands silent.

And then, a bang.

The end.

 

*

 

“It’s your ACL, Mr. Nikiforov. It was torn and then strained under constant use, so it can no longer be recovered with only treatment. Surgery is necessary,” the doctor explains, pointing to different places in Viktor’s MRI knee scan. “There are also two Meniscus tears in the same knee, which will make recovery more difficult.”

The doctor turns to the bed Viktor is currently laying in and sighs. That makes Viktor bristle; a doctor sighing never means anything good. He distantly feels Yuuri’s hand squeezing his own, but it’s like it’s happening to somebody else. This whole situation feels like it should be happening to somebody else.

“There is a high chance that you won’t be able to recover 100%, Mr. Nikiforov. The strain on your ACL was high and even with the reconstructive surgery it’ll probably never be as flexible as it once was.” The doctor’s eyes shift and Viktor swears he can see pity in them. It bothers him. “Recovery _is_ possible, but it very probably won’t be a complete one. I’m sorry.”

Viktor gulps and watches the doctor gather his things and leave with a subtle bow. Yuuri accompanies him to the door and then returns to Viktor’s side with a worried look in his face.

There are no words that can be said to console, they both know it. So Yuuri only kisses his husband’s forehead and rubs his hand over Viktor’s, trying to comfort him.

His home, the ice, has just been snatched away from him. It had been a mere few months he’s been practicing again after taking time off to coach Yuuri, and another few months competing. The season isn’t even _halfway_ done. And yet, Viktor has been thrown out, the doors of the place he’d grew up and became _Viktor Nikiforov, the Living Legend_ in, shut directly in his face. There is no handle, no lock, no key. The door is closed and there would be no way to open it back up.

Viktor feels like he’s going to throw up. He curls forward with the feeling, all the food he hadn’t had before the competition raising on his throat as bile.

Who is Viktor Nikiforov, if not on the ice? Does Viktor Nikiforov exist outside the ice?

Even when he was coaching Yuuri, he has always been on the ice. Creating routines or choreographing programs, he has always been right there next to Yuuri on his skates.

And now? Home isn’t home anymore. Viktor isn’t Viktor.

All that is left of him are the broken pieces that Yuuri is so desperately trying to keep together, his hands strong enough to hold Viktor up and touch delicate enough to handle the broken pieces and not crush them.

And all Viktor can do is watch as he crumbles, the edge of his own skates cutting deep into him.

He’d forgotten how sharp they were.

 

*

 

The routine was etched into Viktor’s being already, the steps, jumps and spins already practiced enough that his body acted merely on muscle memory. Skating on his left foot’s outside edge, throwing himself into the triple axel and landing perfectly on his right foot. The blades made pleasant sounds over the ice; the scratching of the ice physical proof that Viktor had carved himself a path across the surface.

The music blaring through the loudspeakers of the rink was merely another addition to the muscle memory his body responded to. A change in key, the start of a step sequence; the addition of an instrument, the cue for his layback spin; the quiet lull of the bridge, a graceful slide of his spread eagle on the ice.

Viktor Nikiforov had carved himself into the ice; made a home out of it and conquered with grace and awe. The cheering made it feel like home, too, the sound mere background noise but an ever-present guest. It interwove itself with the notes of the program’s music, making it come alive and wrap around Viktor as he spun.

The choreographic sequence was the last one in this Free Skate, because he’d always loved choreographing. Viktor’s feet moved dexterously, making zig zags on the ice and splashing shaved ice as he went. There was a smile on his chest, the familiarity of the movements creating warmth and telling him: _this is where you belong_.

The music stopped, and so did Viktor.

The crowd roared.

As he left the ice for the kiss and cry, the rink filled with poodle plushies. He grabbed one that fell near the entrance of the rink and waved with it to the audience, bowing to them and the ice one last time.

Later, when the games’ ambassador was sliding the gold medal over Viktor’s head, he finally smiled openly. The weight around his neck was comforting in a way that had become familiar to him now, and that amazed him. The medal was a solid weight against his ribcage, contrasting the rapid beating of his heart, and it felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Viktor Nikiforov may not have been born out of the ice, but he was certainly _reborn_ in it. The ice allowed him to grow into himself, find parts of himself that he’d never encounter any other way. On the ice he could be anyone and feel anything, as long as he was able to express it through the scratch of his skates over the ice. But, most importantly, on the ice he could be _Viktor_ , the boy who once had too many dreams to count and managed to achieve them all wearing a pair of skates and a gold medal around his neck.

At 16, Viktor Nikiforov found three things on the ice: a home, an internationally renowned gold medal, and himself.

 

*

 

“You shouldn’t have to be doing this.”

It’s been on Viktor’s mind for a couple months now and he’s finally blurted it out. Yuuri looks up from the end of the couch where he’s helping Viktor do his exercises and stretches. His brow furrows.

“Of course I have to,” he says, and then a small joking smile makes it to his face. “In sickness and in health, remember?”

As he helps Viktor flex his knee, the fading light of the afternoon catches on his wedding ring and glimmers. Viktor smiles despite himself, looking down at his own ring with fondness.

The headlines were insufferable for weeks after Viktor’s accident and surgery. In big bold letters, a newspaper article read: “ _Top competitive Russian Figure Skater requires surgery_.” And in smaller letters underneath that: “ _Husband competitive Japanese Figure Skater takes time off to care for him_.”

So Yuuri is here now, has been here since the moment Viktor had been discharged from the hospital. He’s been so careful and attentive, always there for Viktor in all the ways that Viktor needs him.

“You know,” Viktor starts, changing the conversation topic. “I used to lose too. A long time ago.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen at that, like he is taken aback. “Lose? All the time I’ve known you, you’ve been up on the podium.”

Viktor can’t help letting out a little chuckle at that. “Well, it may be so, but when I first got into Juniors and Seniors there were much more experienced skaters already competing that took the medals from me.” Letting out a sigh, he relaxes against the arm of the couch, momentarily stopping the knee stretches. “I remember the first time I got to an international competition, one of the Junior Grand Prix qualifiers, and I was so nervous about it that I ended up on the 10th place.” Viktor barks out a laugh at that, trying to cover up the way his chest is starting to feel tight and his face is trying to grimace at the memory. “Yakov didn’t know what to do with me, I was inconsolable. I ended up crying the whole night until I feel asleep, and woke up to a McDonald’s hamburger and french fries on the night stand of the hotel we were sleeping in. Can you believe it? Yakov buying _McDonald’s_ for one of his students? _Ha!_ ”

For some reason, it feels like the only thing Viktor can do is laugh. His chest aches, his stomach is a tight knot and his eyes burn with tears unshed, but all he can bring himself to do is _laugh_. And Yuuri is not laughing at all. His brow furrowed and his eyes laser-focused, Yuuri just stares at Viktor with a questioning look in his eyes. Viktor swallows, feeling like a deer caught in headlights, and all his body tells him to do is to keep talking.

“I obviously got onto the ice as soon as possible when we arrived at St. Petersburg the next day. Yakov didn’t go easy on me, even though my eyes were so red and puffy I almost couldn’t see. But, that was good for me, I think,” he adds the last part unsure, getting increasingly uncomfortable under his husbands’ stare.

“I don’t think it was good at all, actually. You needed emotional support,” Yuuri says, voice firm. He seems to think something over, and his eyes soften suddenly as he lets out a sigh. He crawls over Viktor’s body, always mindful of his injured knee, and wraps his arms around Viktor’s neck, cradling his head on the curve of his shoulder. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re allowed to cry and feel bad, Vitya. You don’t have to be invincible all the time.”

“Hah, Yuuri, that’s nice but why—” The tears are falling before Viktor even realizes it. He inhales, his breath catching on his throat and feeling the inevitability of the situation all over his body, though he still tries one more time. “I don’t need to…”

Yuuri’s hands move on Viktor’s scalp in delicate, careful circles. “This is home, Vitya, not the ice. You don’t have to pretend.”

There is something in that sentence that lets everything loose inside of him. Viktor curls into Yuuri’s space, his hands desperately grabbing at his husband’s sides like he’s going to die if he lets go. He sobs, and it feels like it’s being ripped out from him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul.

In his husband’s arms, Viktor wails like the kid he was never allowed to be, because the ice doesn’t want kids. The ice wants warriors and victory-thirsty athletes, it wants desperate hands outstretched and reckless bodies pushed to the limit. The ice wants beautiful things it can break, shimmery fragments of delicate glass hearts scattered all across its surface.

Yet, even knowing all of this, having first-hand experienced the cruelty that the ice treats it athletes with, there is still one short sentence being repeated over and over in Viktor’s head:

 _But the ice_ is _home._

  
*

 

When Viktor’s feet wobble over the surface of the ice, the ghost of balance lost somewhere on his body, he panics. His arms shoot forward instinctively, preventing a fall that doesn’t arrive because Yuuri’s hands catch them, securing Viktor’s balance and pride.

Viktor looks up at Yuuri, wide-eyed and breathless. “I haven’t felt like this since the first time I put on skates.”

Yuuri chuckles, but there’s kindness in his eyes and encouragement in the hands holding Viktor. “Well, you’re basically starting from zero again. It’s to be expected.” He looks back to the empty surface of the ice, then back to Viktor, and asks, “can I start moving now? I won’t let you go, I promise.”

“Right.” Viktor examines the vast expense of ice before him. Yuuri had somehow managed to snatch them both some solo rink time into the ever-busy Yubileyny schedule, so the rink is completely empty except for the pair of them. He looks down at his skates, his feet still unsure and slippery over the surface of the ice that had thrown him out all those months ago. He can see his face reflected there, and there’s challenge in his eyes. He looks up to Yuuri with a smirk. “Let’s start moving.”

It takes time, excruciating minutes that stretch into hours, for Viktor to get back the most basic moves. He practices crossovers, mohawks and bunny hops like he’s five again and discovering a whole new world for the first time. By the end of the two hours Yuuri managed to schedule them for, Viktor’s knee is a dull ache that fuels his focus and drive.

Twice a week on-ice practice turns into thrice a week turns into five days a week. Viktor spends all his time off doing off-ice practice and knee exercises, never wasting a moment. When Yuuri goes away for ice shows, Viktor pushes the couches away from the center of the living room and dances along to the routine he saw Yuuri create as he watches him on the TV. Makkachin follows him around, wagging her tail and barking excitedly, always jumping up to place her paws on Viktor’s thighs when he finishes. Viktor laughs and rubs her face and head, and watches as his husband is showered in gifts across the world.

Yuuri comes back in the middle of the off-season and Viktor receives him at the airport, Makkachin patiently sitting next to him.

“You were amazing, Yuuri,” Viktor says after they’ve spent at least ten minutes hugging. “I could never look away.” Yuuri blushes and Viktor brushes his thumb over Yuuri’s rosy cheek, his eyes filled with adoration. He hesitates for a second, his eyes shifting away from his husband.

“Viktor?” Yuuri asks, the blush gone and replaced with slight concern on his face.

“I… want to show you something,” Viktor says. He looks into Yuuri’s eyes once again with determination. “Will you see?”

Yuuri’s expression softens, a small smile stretching his lips. “Of course I will. I’ll treasure anything you want to give me.”

Viktor smiles, his heart brimming with love, and he steals a quick peck from Yuuri. “Let’s go.”

The rink is miraculously empty when they arrive at Yubileyny. The zamboni has just finished resurfacing the ice and there is a lull between practices, so Viktor hurries to put on his skates. Yuuri stays on the bleachers, confused and expectant, Makkachin obediently sitting next to him, silently watching as Viktor does a few laps around the ice to warm up. He watches him skate to the side of the rink, over to a small set of speakers and then music starts to flow from them. It’s nowhere near as loud as the rink’s speakers, the music barely a murmur in the huge rink, but Yuuri recognizes the first few notes instantly.

Yuuri slowly gets up, silent and in awe, as Viktor begins the routine.

Even after all these years, there is still nothing like watching Viktor on the ice. There is a grace to his movements, an ethereal kind of beauty that can only be invoked by the finity of Viktor’s ice skating. It’s knowing that it will end, knowing that you only have a few minutes to watch it happen, that makes it so beautiful. Yuuri watches him, his idol and his husband, write love into the ice with the strength of his skates and the speed of his spins.

Viktor skates and Yuuri can see strength, can see beauty, can see love. Because even though it has hurt him so many times, Viktor’s first love is still the ice.

And, Yuuri is sure in that moment, the ice loves him back.

There are tears in Yuuri’s eyes as Viktor throws himself into the final jump in the program, a triple axel. He double-foots the landing, but he _lands it_ , and Yuuri is jumping, clapping and celebrating, the tears sliding down his face hot against his skin. Viktor is winded when he finishes, breathing heavily and the hair of his bangs sticking to his forehead with sweat, but he’s smiling, shining with pride.

Viktor skates to the boards, taking a deep breath and coming to a stop before Yuuri, who is petrified and speechless.

“Remember when you skated my routine and called out to me? How you asked me to be by your side?” Viktor asks and Yuuri blushes, but nods. “This is me calling you now.” Viktor holds Yuuri’s face with his hands, silently wiping away the tears that are wetting his cheeks. “And thanking you for staying by _my_ side.”

“That… that was my routine,” Yuuri manages after a few seconds of silence. “The one I skated for the ice shows.”

“Mhm,” Viktor hums, nodding.

Yuuri suddenly laughs, throwing his head back, his whole body shaking with it. There are tears in his eyes again. “I’m sorry, this is just….” he says when the laughter calms down, smiling sheepishly, “sometimes I still can’t believe this is my life. But,” Yuuri looks back into Viktor’s eyes and his are so full of love it feels like it might start spilling out in the form of tears again. It’s Yuuri’s hands holding Viktor’s face this time, warm and familiar and all that Viktor needs. “Yes. I’ll stay with you, for as long as you’ll have me. You can’t get rid of me now.”

That makes Viktor chuckle, his eyes slipping closed as he leans into Yuuri’s hands, covering them with his own. Yuuri brings their foreheads together, bodies still separated by the boards in between them, and they stay there for a few seconds, the warm spring sun falling over the rink through Yubileyny’s big windows.

Yuuri pushes away, a sudden memory striking him. He takes one of Viktor’s hands and brings it to his lips, kissing it before saying, “that almost seems like a marriage proposal.”

Viktor flushes red at the memory and then buries his face into his hands, laughing. Of course Yuuri would remember that. Still slightly flushed, Viktor takes Yuuri’s hands again and smiles softly. “I wouldn’t mind getting married again.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Yuuri says, rolling his eyes. He can’t contain his smile for too long, though, and soon he brings Viktor close for a kiss.

With his feet on the ice and his hands tightly held in his husband’s, Viktor thinks: _Yeah. This is home._

At 31, Viktor Nikiforov finds three things on the ice: a promise during a warm spring day, a pair of hands that will never let him go, and a better, stronger version of himself.


End file.
